


breaks in morning light

by littlesnowpea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Miscommunication, Other, Wingfic, molting, preening, shut up and kiss already, two idiots pining like it's a goddamn forest, working title was "maybe you idiots should TALK to each other"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 12:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: “In Heaven,” Aziraphale said, as quickly as possible. “That’s not how forced molts work. Anyway! I was very busy, didn’t have time, it didn’t seem like a problem.”“What do you mean,” Crowley said slowly, clearlynotletting this go. (He was a demon, he didn’t let anything go.) “That’s not how forced molts work in Heaven.How else do forced molts work?”Aziraphale took a long sip of champagne. It did not help his suddenly dry mouth. Crowley was still staring at him. He sighed and sat up a little straighter.“They don’t waste miracles on molts,” he said, like he was reciting something Gabriel had said. (He was.) “If you need help with a molt, they do it the old fashioned way.”





	breaks in morning light

**Author's Note:**

> me: there isn’t enough wing fic out there, especially for a series where the characters have wings
> 
> also me: wish i could write it, but school and all.
> 
> also also me, not two hours later: god damn it. 
> 
> i did entirely too much research on wings and molting and preening for this fic. i don’t even like birds! these ineffable idiots have ruined me.
> 
> title from ‘all this and heaven too’ by florence and the machine.
> 
> this is only like, my second time writing p in v sex and my first time writing praise kink so forgive any ridiculous errors please. no beta i choose to fall like crowley.

It was entirely impossible to tell whether the aching, bone-deep itching along Aziraphale’s spine was related to them stopping the Apocalypse or not. (It _was_ possible. He didn’t want to acknowledge that it was long overdue, that was all.)

At any rate, the ache had begun sometime in the middle of the night while he lay inexplicably in the same bed as Crowley, though he was pretty sure neither of them slept. Crowley was running over the finer details of their plan to switch faces, searching for any snag, any flaw, and Aziraphale, well. He was trying not to shift around too much, searching for a position to relieve the pain he knew wouldn’t be alleviated. 

He should have bit the bullet fifty years ago, when he was due for a molt and it hadn’t appeared. Should have popped into Heaven and asked for some intervention to force a molt. Instead, he ignored it, and now he was faced with the consequences of a hundred and fifty odd years of aging feathers. 

And, if the pain he was already experiencing was any indication, it was not going to be pleasant. He didn’t want to be apart from Crowley, which meant his options were to molt with him around, which wasn’t ideal for a number of reasons, only one of which was the fact that there was still so much unsaid between them, or to molt on his own, an idea that filled Aziraphale with so much heartsick dread he was surprised he didn’t discorporate on the spot. 

“Are you going to sleep?” Crowley asked. The question wasn’t accusatory, it was merely curious, which Aziraphale couldn’t blame him for. Aziraphale had made it well known sleep wasn’t really his thing, but the itchy pains in his back were already making him irritable. It was some work to not snap back, an extension of self control that he would quickly lose as his molt continued. 

“Don’t know,” Aziraphale wound up answering. “Lots to think about.”

Crowley made a noise of understanding. The sheets rustled as he turned over, and Aziraphale didn’t need to look at Crowley to know Crowley was watching him with those big beautif--with those eyes. Aziraphale did his best to make sure his face was blank. He didn’t think it worked. 

“It’ll work,” Crowley said, voice tired but gentle. “I know it’ll work. I can’t find a flaw, and you know me.”

“That you rush into things without thinking first?” Aziraphale said, and Crowley sighed. 

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale shook his head. 

“No, no, my apologies,” he said, meaning it. His wings were making him tetchy already. Now was a bad time to pick a fight. “I’m just worried about you in Heaven, that’s all.”

“Worried a demon will muck up the place?” Crowley asked, and there was an attempt at a joke in his tone but it fell flat. Aziraphale didn’t call him on it.

“More worried about the endless supply of Holy Water they have if they figure it out,” Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley’s breath caught. “That’s all.”

“Hell has an awful lot of hellfire,” Crowley said. “Well, obviously. It’s right there in the title, after all. Hell fire.”

“I am aware,” Aziraphale said, as gently as he could. “I suppose we just have to give it our all, then?”

“I suppose we do,” Crowley said, and silence fell between them again.

\----

They switched bodies the next morning and rather swiftly parted, Crowley in Aziraphale’s body back to the bookshop, to see if it had been set back to rights like they suspected, and Aziraphale as Crowley staying in the flat, taking careful stock of all the little parts of Crowley the flat held.

In case this didn’t work. 

At any rate, it didn’t occur to Aziraphale to worry that Crowley might be feeling his pain until they were in the park and he realized abruptly that he hadn’t felt a thing all morning and Crowley-as-him was rolling his shoulders, looking a little pained. 

Heaven and Hell didn’t give Crowley time to interrogate Aziraphale, and it all happened so fast. He still panicked watching Crowley get dragged away, up to Heaven, with only the hunch what their punishments were to be. 

Getting hit in the head with a crowbar didn’t shake that fear in the slightest. 

\----

They went to lunch at the Ritz and Aziraphale was so loose-limbed and relieved to have gotten through that nightmare that his wings and their growing ache weren’t quite at the forefront of his mind. It helped to have simply exquisite food in front of him, and he took the time to savor it, all too aware that had Agnes not written their prophecy, they’d both be dead.

It really didn’t bear thinking about. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale took a bite of the mousse he’d ordered for dessert. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” 

Aziraphale made a mostly involuntary noise of pleasure. He truly only mostly couldn’t hide it. It wasn’t because of the slight flush that crossed Crowley’s cheeks sometimes. He swore. 

(It was because of the look on Crowley’s face. Angels _do_ lie after all.)

Crowley, cheeks a little pink, wasn’t deterred. 

“Angel,” he repeated. “Focus, please.”

Aziraphale took his time swallowing his bite of mousse and dabbing his mouth with the napkin. He had an idea of where this conversation was going and he didn’t like it. 

“Yes, my dear?” he said, aiming for casual and missing the mark significantly. It landed somewhere near strained and a little panicked, and Crowley leaned in closer, resting his chin on his fist, eyes blocked by those infernal sunglasses. 

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“Interesting, being in your body,” Crowley mused, and Aziraphale tried not to either groan or flee or both. “Feels like you’re ready to molt. Here I was swearing you molted fifty ish years ago, when you wouldn’t let me drop you anywhere.”

“That was because I’d just handed you Holy Water,” Aziraphale protested. Crowley scowled. 

“Don’t change the subject,” he said sternly. “Fifty years ago you were still in good graces with Upstairs. Care to explain why you didn’t go force a molt when it didn’t come?”

“I molted a little,” Aziraphale tried. Crowley clearly didn’t buy it. “I just...I didn’t want to. I don’t like their forced molts.”

“Nobody likes a forced molt, angel, but sometimes they’re necessary,” Crowley said. “It’s just a snap of their fingers and you molt in a week and yes, it sucks, but it’s better than waiting fifty bloody years, Aziraphale. It’ll hurt so much worse now.”

“Not in Heaven,” Aziraphale blurted out before he could think better of it. Crowley blinked. 

“Pardon?” he asked, sounding taken aback. Aziraphale wished very badly that he could go back in time and use a miracle to shut himself up. Now he had to _talk_ about this. 

“In Heaven,” he said, as quickly as possible. “That’s not how forced molts work. Anyway! I was very busy, didn’t have time, it didn’t seem like a problem.”

“What do you mean,” Crowley said slowly, clearly _not_ letting this go. (He was a demon, he didn’t let anything go.) “_That’s not how forced molts work in Heaven._ How else do forced molts work?”

Aziraphale took a long sip of champagne. It did not help his suddenly dry mouth. Crowley was still staring at him. He sighed and sat up a little straighter. 

“They don’t waste miracles on molts,” he said, like he was reciting something Gabriel had said. (He was.) “If you need help with a molt, they do it the old fashioned way.”

Silence followed Aziraphale’s explanation. He stared down at his mousse. He’d quite lost his appetite. 

“What, pray tell, is the _old fashioned way_?” Crowley asked, a barely concealed line of fury in his voice. Aziraphale was about eighty percent sure it wasn’t directed at him, but he shook a bit anyway. He twisted his napkin in his hands, willing the trembling to die down. This was stupid, it was _ridiculous._ It wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded. 

“If you need help with your molt,” Aziraphale said carefully. “The archangels will pull out all your feathers at once and you will thank them for their assistance.”

“They do _what_?” Crowley demanded, voice loud, fury extending to the clench of his fists and the set of his jaw. He slammed a fist on the table, making Aziraphale jump as their glasses and tableware clinked together. Aziraphale looked around as the chatter of nearby tables died down a little, the diner’s attention diverted to he and Crowley.

“Crowley, please,” he begged. “Don’t shout.”

“Don’t shout?” Crowley demanded, but he did lower his voice. “_Don’t shout?_ Angel, you just described torture that Heaven inflicts and you expect me to be calm? Did they ever do that to you?”

Aziraphale looked anywhere but at Crowley, knowing that was an admission in itself. Crowley’s breath caught. Aziraphale sighed. 

“It was just the once,” he said. “And Michael was as gentle as she could be. Until Gabriel decided she was taking too long and took over.”

“I’ll rip that bastard’s head off,” Crowley snarled. Aziraphale flinched and it was like all the fight went out of Crowley at once. “I’m sorry, angel, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Crowley rarely apologized, usually relied on grand gestures to make up to Aziraphale, so when he actually said the words _I’m sorry_, Aziraphale was taken aback. Crowley wasn’t finished, either. 

“It’s just,” he said, and he sounded a little helpless now, grasping for words or explanations or something Aziraphale didn’t know. Aziraphale was reminded of Crowley’s expression at the Arc--_Drowning everybody else?_ and _You can’t kill kids_. It stung to see Crowley react like that, because every time he did, Aziraphale was reminded that Heaven wasn’t what it was supposed to be. 

He guessed he’d better get used to it. 

“It’s just, molting hurts on its own,” Crowley said plaintively, so plaintively, reaching out slowly to lay a hand over Aziraphale’s on the table. Aziraphale twitched but managed to not pull away. Small victories. “I just cannot imagine how badly that had to have hurt.. That’s not--even in _Hell_ we didn’t do that.”

“Most demons don’t have wings anymore, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly, mostly out of self-defense. 

“Not the point,” Crowley said. “Even _the Prince of Hell_, who does have wings, wouldn’t do that, angel. That wasn’t okay, what they did. _Don’t waste miracles on molts_, they’re lucky I don’t tear Heaven apart.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. Crowley shook himself. 

“Right,” he said. “The polite thing to do would be to give you space until you asked for my help, but I’m a demon, so I’m not doing that.”

“Our own side,” Aziraphale tried. Crowley ignored him.

“I’m staying at yours,” he said firmly. “Until your molt is done. You cannot handle it on your own. You know you can’t.”

Aziraphale ducked his head. He couldn’t decide if he wanted Crowley there or not, to be entirely honest. Well, the small, private part of him he tried to ignore every day very much did want Crowley there, but that wasn’t the point. At any rate, it didn’t sound like Crowley was giving him a choice, and he was probably right. Aziraphale wouldn’t properly take care of himself once the pain got worse.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said quietly, and Crowley squeezed his hand, an uncharacteristically gentle and reassuring move that sent Aziraphale’s head spinning. “I’m sorry.”

“Angel, if you apologize to me one more time, I might actually storm Heaven’s gates,” Crowley said.

“I skipped a molt,” Aziraphale argued. 

“Because Heaven is barbaric,” Crowley countered. “Don’t apologize. Let’s go.”

Aziraphale took a breath he didn’t technically _need_ and stood when Crowley did, following him out towards the Bentley.

\----

Aziraphale felt vaguely feverish and sick to his stomach by the time they were back in the bookshop. He took a moment to curse physical forms as much as he could without crossing the line into blasphemy. If one was discorporated, molting was much easier, but with a body, well. 

Aziraphale knew from experience how awful it truly was. And he didn’t exactly have a choice this time around. He shuddered to think of what would happen if he was discorporated now. 

“Upstairs,” Crowley said, guiding Aziraphale before he’d even finished speaking. “I know you’ve a bed up there, I’ve slept in it often enough.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, just allowed Crowley to lead him into the tiny flat above the shop, the place Aziraphale had called home for so long. His head was beginning to ache, throbbing in time with his wings, and he dreaded bringing them out into this plane. It would _hurt_.

“That won’t do,” Crowley said, and at first Aziraphale thought he was talking about his bed. It looked perfectly serviceable to him, and besides, he doubted anything would make the coming few weeks more bearable. But when he glanced over at Crowley (and even his _eyes_ hurt, Someone have mercy) Crowley was looking Aziraphale up and down with a critical expression.

“What?” Aziraphale managed, after a few false starts. It was getting hard to find words now. Crowley snapped his fingers and Aziraphale jumped in surprise, looking down to find himself in different clothes, the first different outfit he’d worn in eleven years. They were _soft_, and okay, he did feel slightly more comfortable. It helped they smelled like Crowley, like he’d summoned the green pajama pants and stretched-out black t shirt from his own flat. 

“Okay, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, impossibly gently. “I know you already want to sleep but I need you to bring your wings out, okay?”

Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, taking in the concern on his face, the breathtaking care of the hand that burned on his lower back in the best way, the determination to take care of Aziraphale despite everything Aziraphale had done. 

“You’re too good to me,” he said, and an expression Aziraphale couldn’t catch flickered across his face before it was back in it’s smooth, calm default.

“You’re easy to be good for,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale didn’t get a chance to comment on the strange phrasing before Crowley was continuing. “Bring your wings out.”

Azirapahle made a face and Crowley sighed. He clearly had more patience than he usually did, but the line of his shoulders still suggested he was furious. Aziraphale took a little heart in knowing the fury probably wasn’t for him. 

As if he was reading Aziraphale’s mind--though it was likely just plain lingering anger--Crowley sent a dark look skyward, and Aziraphale relaxed a little. The movement sent a sharp cramp through his wings, however, and he hissed, drawing his shoulders up tight. 

“Angel,” Crowley said. “It will hurt worse the longer you keep them away. Bring them out for me, okay? Then we can see what we’re working with.”

Aziraphale sighed shakily. He silently willed himself to keep himself stoic, bring out that stiff upper lip the British invented but he’d adopted, even as he closed his eyes and reached for his wings. 

All his composure vanished the second he pulled them out, though. As they unfolded behind him, fully on this plane as they had to be, they felt like they had been doused in oil and set alight. White hot, searing pain shot through him and he cried out, crumpling. He only didn’t hit the floor because Crowley intervened, taking his weight and guiding him to the bed.

“I know, I know,” Crowley said, voice tight, and Aziraphale choked on tears. The burning was fading, replaced by that deep ache again, fresh now that his wings were actually out. There was a loud buzzing in his ears and he absently noticed Crowley take his hands. Crowley’s hands really were nice. They were soft and warm, especially for a cold blooded demon. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale snapped back to the present, buzzing fading to background noise, ache hotter. Crowley stroked his thumbs over the back of Aziraphale’s hands, watching him intently. Aziraphale took a shuddering breath. 

“How bad?” he asked, voice cracking. Crowley looked over Aziraphale’s shoulder and _curse_ those sunglasses because they gave Crowley a poker face that would rival a gabling addict. Crowley didn’t touch, just swept his gaze over Aziraphale’s wings before looking back at him. 

“Well, you’re definitely molting,” Crowley said. “I’d guess the stress of saving the world probably reminded your biological clock.”

“We don’t have biological clocks,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley fixed him with an exasperated but fond look. Aziraphale could read that even through the sunglasses. He still preferred them off, though, and as the thought finished forming, Aziraphale reached out and plucked them off Crowley’s face, who frowned at him. 

“Better,” he decided, and Crowley’s eyes actually went soft. “Love your eyes.”

“You’re a one-angel fanclub,” Crowley said. “Can you stand me to comb your feathers?”

Aziraphale shuddered before he could help himself. Crowley made a noise that told Aziraphale that was all he needed to hear. 

“Bath?” he suggested, and Aziraphale shook his head again. “Okay. We can--well, when I molt I use heat but I don’t know if that would feel good for you.”

“As long as it’s not hellfire,” Aziraphale mumbled, eyes suddenly heavy, which he did _not_ ask for. Rude body, going off and deciding things for itself. Who did it think it was?

Crowley looked even more fond, unguarded without the sunglasses. It must have been involuntarily on his part, because usually Crowley would hide every kind word and soft look with an insult or a sneer, but he did neither now. 

_It’s just because of your molt,_ Aziraphale told himself firmly. _He’s being careful because you’re ill. Don’t get your hopes up, you useless angel._

“Hey,” Crowley said sharply, and Aziraphale jumped, hissing as his wings spasmed. He looked at Crowley, who was frowning, and realized he’d said the last two words aloud. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that, I won’t allow it. You’re not a useless angel. You’re the best angel I’ve ever met. Clear?”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley squeezed his hands. “Sorry.”

“No more apologies,” Crowley said warningly. He glanced behind Aziraphale again and without his glasses, Aziraphale saw the wince. 

“That bad?” he asked, and Crowley shook himself. 

“Looks like a one hundred and fifty year overdue molt,” he said, suddenly businesslike. “Lie on your stomach. I’ll be right back.”

Aziraphale obeyed without a word, turning on the bed until he was on his belly, head nestled in his arms, staring vacantly out the window at the blue sky, so unusual for London. Every so often, his wings twitched and he hissed against the pain, squeezing his eyes shut until it faded again. Right in between his shoulderblades, his preen gland ached, too, overproducing oil to ease the molt. 

“Okay,” Crowley said gently, the bed dipping as he knelt on the bed beside Aziraphale. “This is going to be very warm.”

Aziraphale nodded and Crowley laid something over his spine, where the throbbing was originating from. Aziraphale hissed against the damp heat, but Crowley lightly pressed down, until the heat worked its way into Aziraphale’s muscles and, bit by bit, Aziraphale felt himself relaxing, the pain ebbing a bit. It was still there, but his wings were feeling less and less like they were falling off. 

He felt Crowley run an experimental hand across his feathers, but, other than a slight twinge, it didn’t scream in pain at him. A thought occurred to Aziraphale. 

“Careful,” he said, surprised to find himself mumbling his words. He must be closer to sleep that he’d thought. “Holy. Might burn you.”

“No, angel,” Crowley said. “They’re just feathers.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed and, as sleep caught up to him, he felt Crowley press a gentle kiss at the base of his neck. 

Aziraphale tried to catalog it away, a memory to pull out when his feelings got too strong, as they sometimes did. He didn’t know if he was successful--he was battling to stay awake now, that pull to unconsciousness. It sounded wonderful.

In between one exhale and another, he slipped into sleep.

\----

Aziraphale blinked awake, eyes blurry and mouth dry. Had he really fallen asleep? Their switch and the trial must have taken more out of him than he thought. 

He shifted and a scream was torn from his throat as what felt like one giant cramp took over his wings. He tried curling up, drawing his wings in protectively, but that just caused more agony to crash over him, like incessant waves. 

“Hey, hey,” Crowley said, appearing suddenly at the side of the bed. “Deep breaths, Aziraphale.”

All at once Aziraphale remembered where he was and what was happening. He took a long, deep breath, releasing it slowly and trying to force his muscles to relax so his wings wouldn’t cramp up so badly. 

“How--how long was I asleep?” he asked finally, when he was as calm and relaxed as he could be considering his wings still throbbed. Crowley crawled onto the mattress next to him and offered him his shoulder to rest his head on. Aziraphale felt fit to burst all of a sudden, the feelings he’d been hiding for six thousand years bubbling to the surface, demanding to be released. Crowley still had the sunglasses off and Aziraphale wanted _so badly_ to kiss him like humans did.

He’d long ago resigned himself to being a bad angel, if only because he fell in love with a demon. 

“About three hours,” Crowley answered, and Aziraphale tried to shake off the urge. It was inappropriate. And Crowley didn’t love him like that, Aziraphale would know. Aziraphale was a being of love, he knew it when he saw it, and the only affection Crowley had for him was friendly. 

_Which is better than nothing_, he thought ruefully. He twitched a little as Crowley ran fingers through his feathers. It hurt a bit, like antiseptic on a scraped knee, but it wasn’t anything Aziraphale couldn’t deal with and having Crowley so close was worth it. 

“I combed a little while you were asleep,” Crowley said, gesturing to the side. Azirapahle carefully lifted his head to see what he was talking about, finding a pile of snow white down feathers in the corner. He considered craning his neck to check his wings but he already knew they were in a state. Looking at them wouldn’t make him feel better in the slightest.

“It’s a full molt, then,” Aziraphale said tiredly. Not that he thought it would be anything less. (That was true. He didn’t _think_ it might be less. But he certainly hoped it would be. That was neither here nor there, however; here being in this bed with Crowley and there being back in the hands of Gabriel, sensitive pinfeathers being ripped from him, Gabriel snarling as he cried. Goodness, did Aziraphale go there again?)

“Yes, angel,” Crowley said, kindly not pointing out that after 150 years he would seriously be concerned if Aziraphale did not fully molt. Aziraphale appreciated it. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Aziraphale whispered. “Sore.”

Crowley ran fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, which was probably a mess. Aziraphale didn’t mind, leaning into the touch before he could help himself. It just felt so nice, distracting him from his wings a bit. Stupid angel, being afraid of Heaven’s help molting.

“It wasn’t help, what they did,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale blinked. He was _positive_ he hadn’t said any of that out loud. Could Crowley really read his mind? “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you should have let them do it. Know what I think? I think if Beelzebub heard what Heaven did, they wouldn’t _stand_ for it.”

Aziraphale was quiet. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Crowley, because he did. If nothing else, Beelzebub would use it as an excuse to lord over Heaven--_look at the angel we helped because you didn’t._ Aziraphale could see it perfectly. 

It was just--even after everything, he was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that Hell was sometimes more humane than Heaven. 

“I wish I could make this faster for you,” Crowley said quietly. “But I’ll be here, long as it takes. I’ll bring you all the sushi you want.”

“All the sushi I want?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley nodded. “You’re so good.”

Crowley swallowed. 

“And anything else,” he offered. There was a slight pink dusting on his cheeks. Aziraphale didn’t call him on it.

“Cake?” Aziraphale asked. “That sponge cake we had, remember?”

“The pink one?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale nodded into Crowley’s chest. “That can be arranged. Anything else, angel?”

“Would you really stay?” Aziraphale asked, plaintive, before he could help himself. “The whole time?”

Crowley nodded, carefully lifting a loose feather and plucking it off. He dragged it across Aziraphale’s nose, grinning as Aziraphale sneezed, before it vanished from his hand. 

“I’m staying,” Crowley said firmly. “Until it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Aziraphale had a wild, runaway, absolutely mad thought of _then I hope it hurts forever. _

He supposed it was the last of his Grace that prevented him from saying something so stupid out loud. 

\----

“Please don’t,” Aziraphale tried. Crowley seemed unmoved despite the fact that Aziraphale knew he was using his best pleading face. It usually worked. 

Apparently not this time. 

“Do you want impacted pin feathers?” Crowley asked, clearly unimpressed. He raised one eyebrow when Aziraphale didn’t immediately answer, and Aziraphale sighed. “I need to comb your wings. There are feathers ready to lift off. I will avoid the pin feathers that have already grown in.”

Aziraphale made a face but sat backwards in the chair Crowley had miracled up. He rested his head on his crossed arms and tensed as Crowley laid a careful hand on his wings. He genuinely didn’t mean to tremble. It was just--the last person to touch his wings had been Gabriel, and he was ripping feathers from them and scolding him for crying. 

“I’m not ripping feathers out,” Crowley said gently, and really, Aziraphale should test and see if he could read minds now, because he was guessing Aziraphale’s thoughts with eerie accuracy. (If Aziraphale had been in his right mind, he’d realize that his face did not exactly keep secrets when he was in pain.) “I’m just gently combing. It might sting but it won’t be terrible. I promise you, angel.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale whispered, because that was about all he could think of to do. He swallowed fighting back his urge to draw his wings in close at the first touch of the comb to feathers. 

Once, Aziraphale (well, his corporation) got a sunburn. The lovely warm sun stabbed him in the back a la Brutus, leaving his admittedly pale skin bright pink. Crowley had laughed for days, even after he brought Aziraphale an aloe plant and taught him what to do with it. That had hurt--the sunburn, that was, the aloe felt lovely, if a bit sticky--but it was more a raw feeling than the ache he’d been experiencing in his wings.

Point was, as Crowley combed, the pain was more on the level of that sunburn. Irritating, but not excruciating. Aziraphale started to relax, bit by bit, breathing in and out slowly as Crowley worked oh-so-gently on the mess his wings were. 

“There,” Crowley breathed. “That’s it, angel.”

_I love you_, Aziraphale wanted to say, but somehow managed not to. How he’d manage to keep himself quiet later, when all the pin feathers were in and even _breathing_ hurt, he didn’t know, but he managed now. 

“You’ve got a few covert pins in,” Crowley said. “I’m not touching them, don’t worry. They’re fresh.”

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement, dropping his head. He could tell exactly where those covert pin feathers were if he concentrated. He did _not_ want to. It hurt less when he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale made an inquisitive noise. Sorry for what? He wasn’t actually hurting Aziraphale at the moment. Before he could ask, though, Crowley continued. “Angel, I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It--it hardly bears thinking about how that must have felt, the pain you went through. It makes me want to burn Heaven to the ground.”

“You’re not to go near Heaven, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, halfway turning in the chair to give Crowley the sternest look he could manage. “Do you hear me? You are not actually immune to Holy Water.”

“I don’t think Holy Water would stop me,” Crowley said darkly and Aziraphale frowned. “Fine. But you’re well shot of those self righteous bastards.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “Our own side.”

Crowley gave him the ghost of a smile, vanishing the small pile of feathers at his feet with a snap. He ran his hands ever so gently down the curve of Aziraphale’s wings. Aziraphale couldn’t repress the shudder that ran through him at the contact--for once, not painful. He just _felt_ like never before. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said again. He was really going for a record. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

He took his hands away and Aziraphale made an involuntary noise of disappointment, shaking his head.

“No,” he managed. “‘S good. Feels nice.”

A pause that perhaps lasted a century passed before Crowley slowly put his hands back on the high ridge of Aziraphale’s wings, stroking carefully down the outsides, steering well clear of the incoming pin feathers. Aziraphale sighed, wriggling a little in delight as Crowley seemed to get the picture and applied a little more pressure, massaging down the outside of each wing. 

“Does it hurt?” Crowley asked, but it sounded like he knew the answer, like this was another one of their countless unspoken conversations, with too many feelings and not enough words between them. Aziraphale shook his head anyway. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered. What for was up for debate, but he meant it. Crowley sucked in a quick breath. 

“Anytime, angel,” he said, and Aziraphale filed away the way his voice sounded for him to remember later, when everything hurt and he was lonely again. 

_Anytime, angel._

\-----

There was a snow-white pile of feathers gathering on the floor beside the bed. Aziraphale stared at them like they had a good explanation for why Crowley had so far wasted two weeks waiting on him hand and foot with no sign of stopping anytime soon.

The feathers did not answer. Inanimate objects, no matter how Holy, did not tend to respond to questions an angel formulated solely in his head, no matter how hard he tried to telepathically communicate said thoughts to said inanimate objects.

Point was, Aziraphale was left just as confused as he had been when Crowley brought him tea this morning, perfectly prepared by hand, no miracles. Aziraphale stared at the now-empty angel mug like maybe it would offer more answers than the feathers, but refer to the above paragraph for how well that went. 

Aziraphale sighed. He longed to roll on his back and spread himself out as much as he wanted, stretching his back which was cramped from him holding it as still as possible, but even breathing too deeply reminded him that his wings were about seventy five percent pin feathers now and lying down on pin feathers would not feel good in the slightest. 

Crowley had disappeared downstairs a while ago, and Aziraphale moved his thousand yard stare to the door of the flat, the stairs down to the bookshop just beyond his field of vision. He didn’t know if he was willing Crowley to stay downstairs so Aziraphale would have time to sort through the thoughts that never gave him a break or desperately hoping Crowley would return so Aziraphale could postpone this anxiety fest for another time. 

He sighed again. Crowley did not appear. Seemed like Aziraphale was left to his thoughts, then. Right. 

His thoughts did not line up like obedient children, to his dismay. They bounced around, instead, unruly, making him frustrated as he chased them down to try and make sense of the complicated web of feelings in his chest. 

Oh, what was the _point_? He was an _ angel_, he shouldn’t have unruly feelings at all--but he’d never been a very good angel, had he? It was by sheer dumb luck or perhaps divine intervention that he hadn’t Fallen already with how lousy he was at being an angel. 

Oh, sure, he still did blessings and miracles when he could, but he didn’t take marching orders from Heaven anymore, and that was a crime in their books. He was surprised he and Crowley had pulled off their master plan to trick their sides. He was surprised he was still being left alone.

He still had all these...thoughts, the ones he’d had since 1941, the ones he’d shoved down over and over, with various incarnations of _opposite sides_ and self denial, which, hey, that could be construed as angelic he supposed. Point was, he’d spent all his time since the church bombing pretending he wasn’t deeply in love with a demon. 

He thought if he pretended enough, it’d be true, but it seemed that God had a sense of humor, or perhaps he was a worse angel than he’d thought, because the harder he tried to pretend, the louder his feelings got. 

His feelings of cold dread and fear for Crowley’s life that made him give in and procure Holy Water for him despite how much it hurt to hand it over. His frantic fear watching Crowley-as-him get dragged off to Heaven, terrified of him being hurt. The way it felt to stand in front of Gabriel every single time and call Crowley his adversary, as if they hadn’t spent the last 6000 years becoming closer and closer friends. 

Aziraphale didn’t know if it was the molt talking or a delayed adrenaline rush, but all of a sudden, he wanted to stand up, rush downstairs, and tell Crowley everything, every moment Aziraphale had where he’d looked at Crowley and thought, wildly, impossibly, _I love you_.

He somehow managed to stop himself from doing that, a slight twitch of his foot the only indicator of his runaway thoughts. 

Oh, this was useless. How long was Crowley going to stay? Because if he stayed until every last feather fell out and regrew, Aziraphale might lose his mind.

He couldn’t decide if he wanted that or not. 

He pushed himself slowly to his feet, wincing at the pull of his wings and ache in his back, and shuffled to the window, squinting at the bright sun. The streets were busy for the morning, pedestrians walking this way and that, cars driving down the street at a _reasonable_ pace, thank you, Crowley.

Speaking of Crowley, Aziraphale strained his eyes but say no hint of the beloved Bentley, no shiny black paint, no demonic aura that convinced anyone with a mind towards theft that they were really better off somewhere far, far away. Aziraphale leaned closer, looking as far to his right and then to his left as possible, but it stayed the same. 

No Bentley. 

“You shouldn’t be standing up,” Crowley admonished from behind him. Aziraphale turned, wincing as his wings protested, and lowered himself back onto the bed at the meaningful look Crowley sent him. Crowley leaned over to make sure Aziraphale hadn’t hurt himself, and Aziraphale took that opportunity to ask The Question.

“Crowley,” he said, and Crowley grunted in response, carefully smoothing what feathers were left back down. “Dear, where is the Bentley?”

“Huh?” Crowley asked, looking up with a frown. 

“The Bentley, dearest,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not out front.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, shrugging. “‘S in the garage at my flat.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale echoed. “But--you hate being away from it.”

“Angel,” Crowley said calmly, the hint of that smirk Aziraphale loved so much playing on his lips. “Being here, helping you, that’s my priority at the moment. The car will wait. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale repeated, and let Crowley push him down onto the bed on his side, feeling a little stupid as Crowley fussed with the blanket until it was tucked around him. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Crowley said. “Really, it’s me being selfish.”

“Uh-huh,” Aziraphale said, shutting his eyes but grinning despite himself. “I’m not sure I see it. Explain it to me?”

“It’s really temptation,” Crowley began.

“Our own side,” Aziraphale interrupted. 

“Shut up,” Crowley said. “Listen. I am _tempting_ you, okay? This is temptation. I am not doing something _nice_, I don’t do nice things.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, smiling softly. “You do good things.”

Crowley froze, eyes wide and locked on Aziraphale, before visibly shaking himself and clearing his throat.

“It would just be inconvenient and boring to be alone,” he said, not convincing in the slightest. “It’s pure selfishness.”

“Uh huh,” Aziraphale said, eyes a little heavy. “Tell me more.”

Aziraphale fell asleep to Crowley’s wild and unnecessary justifications with a grin he couldn’t help on his face.

\-----

By the time most of Aziraphale’s feathers had dropped, replaced by the incredibly sensitive pin feathers now covering his wings, Aziraphale was ready to cry from exhaustion and pain. 

His body didn’t technically need sleep, but molting in a physical form took a lot out of him. Unfortunately, his sleep was frequently interrupted when he rolled onto his wings, sending pain shooting through him and awakening him in the worst way imaginable. 

He couldn’t focus to do anything; not reading, not eating, nothing. He just laid in his bed on his stomach, hoping to Somebody this would be over soon. He was getting ready to cross the line into actual prayer, if he was entirely honest. Some relief from the pain, that was all he wanted. 

Crowley was stroking his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, seated next to him on the bed. Aziraphale had his face pressed to Crowley’s thigh, hopefully hiding any embarrassing looks he might wear. A book was open on Crowley’s lap and he was reading out loud, which did something funny to Aziraphale’s heart. He knew Crowley had trouble reading, choosing to avoid it most of the time or have Aziraphale read to him, but he was making the effort to read aloud to Aziraphale to try and help distract him from the pain. 

It was the type of thing Aziraphale didn’t like thinking too hard about, because then he thought things like _what if_ and those sort of thoughts were not helpful. They may be on their own side now but it was ridiculous to think Crowley loved him like Aziraphale loved Crowley. Demons didn’t love angels. Aziraphale was an anomaly, an outlier. He was lucky it hadn’t caught up to him and made Crowley leave. 

He shifted and sucked in a quick breath as his wings twinged with pain. Crowley paused his reading until Aziraphale untensed a little, pain ebbing the tiniest bit. He continued running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, probably making it a horrible mess, but it felt so nice Aziraphale didn’t care. 

“I really don't see anything romantic in proposing,” Crowley read, and Aziraphale was very glad his face was hidden. His body did many inconvenient things and flushing hotly was one of them. “It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I'll certainly try to forget the fact.” 

Aziraphale wished he’d talked more about this play with Oscar while he was still around. He was surprised Crowley willingly chose from Aziraphale’s Wilde collection considering how jealous he got about Aziraphale’s friendship with the man. Just another thing to not think too hard about. That was the safest course.

“Would you get married, Angel?” Crowley asked, and it took a minute for Aziraphale to realize it was a question directed at him. (To be fair, his brain was liquified. Aziraphale was surprised it was functioning at all.) He made an inquisitive noise and Crowley scratched his nails across his scalp _just so_, making him sigh in contentment for once. “Angel.”

“Marriage is for humans,” Aziraphale said dully. (Another one of Gabriel’s lines, every time he saw humans marry each other. He’d also say things like “so needlessly emotional” and “a waste of time” and “the only love they should have is love for God, what are you even doing on Earth if you can’t get them back into religion, Aziraphale?” But he digressed.) 

“That’s not an answer,” Crowley said, irritatingly calm. Well. Everything was irritating currently, and Aziraphale knew it was less about Crowley than it was the steady ache and throb in his wings. But still. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Perhaps,” he said finally, deliberately not looking up at Crowley. He worried (rightly so) that he could not answer this question without keeping that Look off his face, the one he employed whenever Crowley did something kind or said something funny or comforted Aziraphale when he was desperately trying not to think about being locked out of Heaven for the rest of eternity. It was a Look that screamed to any passers-by _look! I am in love with this celestial being! I have given him my heart in its entirety! Notice this man, the love of my life!_ or something thereabouts. 

“Perhaps?” Crowley asked in the same disbelieving tone he’d once used in Paris, saying _peckish_ in amusement. “What an answer, angel, truly deep and captivating. You should publish that right away.”

“Well, I have no other information,” Aziraphale said, somewhat petulantly. “Who am I supposed to be marrying? A human?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, sounding shifty and more demonlike than he had since the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. He was evasive, dodging the question, and making an Olympic sport out of deflecting. “It was mostly rhetorical, anyway.”

“Like Somewhere it is,” Aziraphale huffed. He pulled his face out of the safety of Crowley’s thigh to narrow his eyes at him. Crowley wasn’t looking at him, hand stilled in Aziraphale’s hair, fingers tapping on the book like he was considering fleeing. 

Aziraphale really didn’t want him to do that. 

He slowly wrapped an arm around Crowley’s leg, as if that could keep him where he was, and Crowley stiffened, fingers freezing in their anxious dance, and hand tightening inadvertently in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale winced the tiniest bit, a weird spike of pleasure mixing with the pain he was in, and squeezed the bit of leg he was clinging to. 

“Crowley,” he said quietly. All at once, Crowley seemed to realize his grip and released it quickly, like he’d been burned. He looked down at Aziraphale, stricken, and Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s okay.”

Crowley opened and shut his mouth, words failing him, and hesitantly tangled his fingers back in Aziraphale’s hair, stiff and frozen like he expected to be smitten on the spot. Aziraphale was not about to let that happen, and he tried to communicate that via facial expressions alone, unsure if he could manage to force the words out through his growing nerves and increasing pain the more he kept his back--and by extension, his wings--twisted. 

“Didn’t mean to upset you,” Crowley finally said, gruffly. “It was more curiosity than anything. You don’t have to answer.”

It absolutely was not curiosity, but Aziraphale didn’t press, just rested his head back into the bed, face against Crowley’s thigh again, forcing himself to relax before the pain became unbearable. Crowley exhaled slowly, running his hand carefully through Aziraphale’s hair, and Aziraphale let his eyes close. 

“Yes,” he said, blurting it out before an ounce of judgement or common sense could intervene, and Crowley went still again. “If the right person asked, yes.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, in a kind of stunned silence, and out of sheer self preservation and nothing else, Aziraphale deepened his breathing and pushed himself back to sleep. 

\----

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale blinked sleep out of his eyes, looking blearily up at the demon, who was dripping slightly. Aziraphale frowned. 

“Whazzat?” he managed, surprised he was able to make any noise whatsoever, and Crowley seemed to notice the water dripping off him and snapped his fingers. A soft whoosh of air told Aziraphale Crowley had miracled himself dry before Aziraphale’s brain abruptly stopped functioning as Crowley sat on the bed beside Aziraphale. 

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asked. There was a strange note of uncertainty in his voice, something Aziraphale would usually investigate if he had any brain power left that wasn’t currently divided between letting him know his back was itchy and achy and letting him know Crowley was sitting very close to him. However, he did not have any leftover brain power, so he just kept squinting up at Crowley until his question registered. 

“‘M tired,” he said. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Crowley said softly and impossibly gently. “I brought you your cake. I need to take a look at your wings, make sure everything’s growing in properly.”

“Cake?” Aziraphale said hopefully, and Crowley smiled down at him, one of his rare, full face, genuine smiles. Not a smirk, not a taunt, just warmth like Aziraphale always knew he carried. 

“Yeah, angel,” Crowley said. “Cake. Can you sit up?”

“Cake first,” Aziraphale said stubbornly. Crowley snorted. 

“Cake after,” he said firmly. “Come on, up you get.”

Aziraphale huffed but pushed himself to a seated position, wincing as his back screamed in protest and his wings twitched. He hated molting. He really, really hated molting. Despite the pain, Aziraphale spread his wings, sucking in a deep breath and holding it until the bright, sharp pain ebbed into the familiar ache. 

“Why are you wet?” he asked, suddenly remembering the dripping. He felt Crowley’s light touch on the outer edges and tensed a little.

“Not going to touch any more,” Crowley reassured him, and Aziraphale relaxed a miniscule amount. “Because it’s raining.”

“Raining?” Aziraphale said. His brain was a little foggy, and it took him a minute to understand what _rain_ was. Molting made him so blessed _stupid_. “Oh. Hard?”

“Fairly,” Crowley said. “A couple feathers have unfurled.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, resisting the urge to twist and try and see for himself. “Which ones?”

“Two primaries and a covert,” Crowley said. “Most of your down looks ready to drop any time.”

“My down itches,” Aziraphale informed Crowley, who laughed again, but not unkindly. 

“Looks like it,” he said. “They’ll fall off soon. Everything looks good, your nightmare should be over soon. Then what will you do with me? Put me out to pasture, I suppose.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale scolded. He stretched carefully, feeling the tug on the still formly encased feathers and resisted the urge to scratch. “Cake?”

“You’re so bossy,” Crowley said, smirking, but snapped his fingers and a to-go box landed gently in front of Aziraphale. “You know, you’re much braver than I am.”

“You molt, too,” Aziraphale said, bite of cake halfway to his mouth. He looked Crowley over and frowned. “And you shed, don’t you?”

“Only snake form,” Crowley said. “And that’s not what I meant. I meant you’re brave to continue reporting to Heaven when you know how cruel they can be.”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale said, feeling quite like he was a few steps behind this conversation. “Where else would I report to?”

“Never mind,” Crowley sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, too,” Aziraphale protested, putting the fork down and setting the box to the side in order to face Crowley directly. Crowley stared at the bed, stubbornly refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, the snake. “Crowley. Look at me, please.”

Crowley heaved a sigh like it was a chore and dragged his gaze from the bed in order to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked like he very much wished he had his sunglasses, but Aziraphale was glad he didn’t. That way, he could see the cloudy mix of uncertainty and desperation and knew Crowley was no calmer than he was. 

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale repeated. “Really, I mean. What do you mean, I’m brave?”

“Look at you,” Crowley said. “You’re letting a demon take care of you during your molt--”

“Our _own side_, dear,” Aziraphale stressed, but Crowley kept talking. 

“--and you kept looking Gabriel in the face even after that _bastard_ abused you so much.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair in frustration and Aziraphale’s hand twitched, urging him to reach out and touch Crowley, to ground him. He forced himself to stay still. “Hell inflicted a lot of torture, angel, but if they’d done anything like that I would have never returned. But you stayed faithful. Why?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and found himself lacking anything to say. What--what was Crowley asking? Why he had faith in God? Aziraphale assumed Crowley did not, hence his Fall, and maybe it was difficult for him to grasp that Aziraphale loved the Lord despite what Her angels may or may not have done. And She must love him, too, because he hadn’t Fallen like he’d half expected to after Armageddon. Or the lack thereof.

“I suppose,” he said slowly. “I suppose it’s Her plan. I don’t--I can’t explain my faith to you, Crowley, I don’t even know how. It’s just there.”

“Why would you go back?” Crowley asked, and oh, there it was. Crowley’s voice was _raw_ and Aziraphale saw quite clearly that it wasn’t Crowley questioning his faith as he’d done many times before. It was Crowley _expressing his fear_ in the only way he knew how. 

Crowley was afraid Aziraphale would choose Heaven over him, like he’d done so often in the past. 

Crowley, it seemed, hadn’t grasped how completely Aziraphale had turned his back on the place, with zero intention of ever looking back. He’d made that decision somewhere between the Metatron endorsing the war and that angel commander calling him pathetic for caring about humanity. 

He guessed somewhere in him longed for the good days of Heaven back, but it had been so very long since Heaven was home that it barely hurt to snip it away like a broken feather. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley swallowed hard, like he was choking back something in response to those two words alone. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I would ever return to Heaven.”

Crowley blinked. 

“But,” he said, voice rough. “But it’s your home.”

“No, it isn’t,” Aziraphale said gently. “It hasn’t been in thousands of years. My home is here. This bookshop. London. Earth. Mostly, home is wherever you are, my darling boy, so Heaven is not my home. I am never going back, even if they’d have me, which I can’t imagine they would. There’s no reason you need to worry.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes before clearing his throat and shuttering his gaze, adopting a bit of a sneer as a defense mechanism Aziraphale knew very well. He smiled warmly at Crowley anyway and picked up his cake again. 

“Spoken like a true angel,” Crowley sniffed, but his voice wasn’t hidden nearly as well, and the crack of emotion in it hit Aziraphale right in the chest. “Eat your damn cake so you’re less crabby.”

Aziraphale was hardly crabby but he let it slide, picking up the box and opening it.

“Yes, dear,” he said indulgently. “Anything you want.”

\-----

“Stop,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale scowled, pressing a little further back in his chair, rubbing his back on the rough fabric. “Angel. Stop.”

“It _itches_,” Aziraphale complained. His tone was just shy of nasty, but his wings itched almost more than they hurt now and nothing was making it stop. It was driving him mad. 

“I know,” Crowley said, maddeningly calm. Aziraphale scowled harder. “But you will hurt the pin feathers not finished growing.”

“Maybe they should stop itching then,” Aziraphale said darkly. Crowley looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. It wasn’t very effective. Aziraphale crossed his arms, wiggling in his chair defiantly. Crowley sighed. 

“I’ll scratch for you,” he said, long-suffering, and Azirapahle went a little still. It was one thing to comb Aziraphale’s wings. It was another to bury his fingers in Aziraphale’s feathers, to touch him _like that_\--only bonded angels ever did something that intimate.

Aziraphale supposed he and Crowley were close. Someone knew Aziraphale couldn’t live without Crowley, not anymore, and would give quite a bit for Crowley to love him as much as he loved Crowley. For the longest time, Aziraphale assumed Crowley _couldn’t_ feel love, as a demon and all, but once Crowley let his guard down, Aziraphale felt his unguarded love for the things that surrounded them; his plants, the Bentley, dinner, alcohol. 

But with Crowley _suggesting something this intimate_, well. Aziraphale’s perspectives might just shift. And he didn’t think that was the molt talking. 

He swallowed. 

“Alright,” he said, hoping he sounded calm and unaffected. He doubted it worked, mostly because he didn’t even feel close to calm and unaffected. Crowley, hands buried in his feathers--a far cry from the comb or even the way he’d gently, oh so gently, stroked down the sides of Aziraphale’s wings. 

Crowley nodded. He looked like he was nowhere near calm and unaffected either, but he was a much better actor than Aziraphale. He stuck his chin out, eyes challenging Aziraphale, daring him to say something about this. 

Aziraphale didn’t. He stood when Crowley beckoned, sitting backwards in the chair Crowley miracled up, trying to keep himself steady. His wings twitched a bit as he unfurled them, and he closed his eyes as he felt hesitant hands lay gently on top of his feathers.

“Okay?” Crowley asked, and his voice sounded rough. Aziraphale repressed a shudder. 

“Yes,” he said, and, after a short pause, Crowley pushed his fingers through the feathers, pushing in until he was touching the itchy sensitive skin underneath. Aziraphale felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

The first scratch was absolutely _heavenly_, blasphemy intended, right on the itchiest spot like Crowley could read his mind. He sighed without thinking about it, pushing back into the touch like a cat seeking warmth. There was a couple bright, sharp points of pain as Crowley brushed pin feathers still full of blood and not encased, but those were only blips in the ocean of relief scratching gave him. 

Crowley only hesitated for a half a second before he continued, chasing the itch down the coverts, under the flight feathers, and into the down, which were pretty much all ready to unfurl. Aziraphale knew scratching might loosen some of the waxy coating over the pin feathers that weren’t still blood-filled, and the mere idea of the relief that would come with not having that itching nonsense all over him was more than enough to satisfy him.

Crowley was exceedingly gentle with the pin feathers that hadn’t shed yet, and, for the first time since Aziraphale’s molt began, Aziraphale started to relax, the insistent need to scratch as well as the pain all dying down for a short while. 

“Better?” Crowley asked. His voice was gruff, but pointedly so, like he was making the effort to sound completely normal. (Which, of course, meant he was freaking out as much as Aziraphale. Subtlety was not one of Crowley’s strong suits.)

Aziraphale tried several times to speak before his voice finally worked, muscles slow and stupid-feeling. 

“Yes,” he said. “Much. Thank you.”

Crowley grunted, which Aziraphale took as an acknowledgement, but then moved to a particularly itchy spot and Aziraphale let out a completely embarrassing moan. Crowley paused and Aziraphale felt his face flame up, waiting for Crowley to move away, to leave. He should have been better at shutting himself up.

Crowley didn’t move. Minutes passed, or they could have been centuries, really, all Aziraphale knew was Crowley was frozen in place, hands still on Aziraphale’s wings, and Aziraphale was regretting saying yes to this whole endeavor. He should have insisted on molting alone, he should have refused Crowley’s company—

“I can’t,” Crowley said brokenly, and Aziraphale winced, wanting to curl up in a ball and never come out. This was it. After 6000 years, Aziraphale had ruined everything. Crowley’s hands disappeared from Aziraphale’s wings and Aziraphale braced himself for Crowley leaving, for him to brush by Aziraphale, leave the shop, climb into his Bentley, and drive away, never to speak to Aziraphale again. 

Imagine his surprise, then, when Crowley circled Aziraphale, dropping to his knees in front of the chair Aziraphale was still sitting on, reaching out to gently cup his cheeks, thumbing over Aziraphale’s lips, which were slightly parted in surprise. Aziraphale swallowed, mouth drier than a desert in summer, cheeks hot under Crowley’s touch. Aziraphale’s entire focus was narrowed down to Crowley and Crowley alone, his wings not even a passing thought in his mind. 

It was all Crowley and the look of desperation on his face. 

“Once upon a time,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale blinked in surprise. Crowley’s voice was shaky, like he was nervous. (If you asked Crowley about it, he would shout about how demons _didn’t get nervous, thank you_ and find a long winded explanation for the tremble in his voice, but that didn’t change the facts. He was clearly nervous.)

“Yes?” Aziraphale asked, voice almost inaudible. Crowley moved like he was about to take his hand back, off Aziraphale’s cheek, and Aziraphale’s hands darted out of their own accord, grabbing Crowley by the wrist and clinging, hoping without words Crowley would understand. 

“Once upon a time, an angel told a demon that he’d given up his God-given sword to help two helpless humans survive,” Crowley said. “It was the most incredible thing that demon had ever seen. Six thousand years passed, and the angel and demon saw each other throughout it, and every single time they met, the demon fell more in love. The end.”

“The end?” Aziraphale asked hoarsely. During Crowley’s faux story, he’d looked away from Aziraphale, like he couldn’t bear looking at him, and he didn’t look away from the corner of the room he was staring at until Aziraphale reached out to cup his face in return, gently turning it towards him.

Crowley was wearing a look of such desperation it looked like it was a miracle he wasn’t sobbing. Those eyes Aziraphale loved so much were wide, fixed on Aziraphale like Crowley was terrified that if he blinked, Aziraphale would vanish. There was a flush in his cheeks, a dusting of red Aziraphale would find endearing if he wasn’t spending most of his brain power of absorbing the fact that Crowley basically admitted his love for Aziraphale. 

“Not really,” Crowley said softly. “Not the end. But the angel was too important to the demon for the demon to ruin things. So the demon never said anything.”

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, barely allowing Crowley to finish. “Crowley, I love you too. I’ve loved you since Paris. At the very _least_. For sure since 1941.”

Crowley went still, staring at Aziraphale with disbelief all over his face. They were still cupping each other’s cheeks, Aziraphale still holding onto Crowley’s wrist, and several more centuries passed (although, in reality, it had been a mere few minutes. Point was centuries _could_ have passed, with neither angel nor demon any the wiser.)

“I didn’t say it was you,” Crowley managed, and Aziraphale snorted in a manner most unbecoming of an angel, if he had a spare inch of him to care about that at all. Crowley was still looking at him like he was afraid Aziraphale would up and vanish, so Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of. 

He leaned closer, the firm back of the chair pressing uncomfortably hard into his chest, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s. 

Crowley went absolutely still, like he was afraid that if he moved, Aziraphale would realize what a horrible mistake he’d made and move away, abandoning Crowley forever. Luckily for Crowley, Aziraphale had no such intention, letting go of Crowley’s wrist to slide his hand into Crowley’s hair, a small spark of satisfaction lighting in his chest as Crowley evidently gave up, a high pitched, needy moan falling from his lips as he kissed Aziraphale back, hard and full of intent and unspoken words. 

It tasted like something Aziraphale had been wanting for many, many years. Perhaps that was because it _was_, desperately so. He pressed forward urgently—it was far from his first kiss, but it was the most important he’d ever had. 

Crowley was kissing back like he’d die if he stopped. Aziraphale wasn’t inclined to test that theory, choosing instead to tease his tongue against Crowley’s, satisfaction pooling in his gut when Crowley gasped at the contact. 

Aziraphale pulled away just the slightest, smiling gently at Crowley’s noise of disappointment, and cupped his cheeks. 

“Once upon a time, an angel loved a demon right back,” Aziraphale said. 

“Kiss me,” Crowley pleaded, and Aziraphale did. 

——

“Let’s see them,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale shook out his wings. He was a little proud of them; it wasn’t often after a one hundred and fifty year overdue molt that all the feathers grew in properly, without incident and soft as anything. His wings felt too soft to use, almost, and he grinned in the light of Crowley’s appreciative stare. 

“Well?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, goading Crowley like he’d done so many times before. “Am I acceptable?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“You’ll be acceptable after a full preen,” he informed Aziraphale haughtily. Aziraphale smirked in a manner most unbecoming of an angel. 

“Oh, dear,” he said. “I have such a hard time preening myself. Whatever will I do?”

“Playing hard to get, are we angel?” Crowley asked, but there was a hint of his own smirk on his face. Aziraphale gave him what could only be described as a _challenging_ look. He was very good at those. He’d had six thousand years to practice them.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “You tell me.”

It was ridiculous and made no sense but Crowley smirked anyway, reaching out and wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s middle, tugging him in for a kiss. Aziraphale indulged him, kissing him soundly for a long moment before snapping his fingers and landing them in Aziraphale’s bed, missing clothes, Aziraphale on top of a shocked-looking Crowley.

“I guess I’m not going too fast?” Crowley quipped, but his eyes were wide and his tone was breathless. Aziraphale tilted his head, looking Crowley up and down as he squirmed a little. 

“Not at all,” he said. “You tell me if I am.”

“Not at all,” Crowley replied, voice cracking on the last syllable as Aziraphale ducked down to suck bruising kisses across Crowley’s collarbone. 

It had the desired effect. Crowley’s back arched, a beautiful line Aziraphale wanted to chase. He traced his fingers down the bumps of Crowley’s ribs and looked up at him. His eyes were wide, pupils huge, gold nearly gone. His cheeks were red and mouth sinfully wet and inviting. 

There was so much Aziraphale wanted to do and he hadn’t even started.

“You spent so much time and energy and love taking care of me,” Aziraphale murmured into the hollow of Crowley’s throat. “Let me take care of you.”

“I—” Crowley gasped as Aziraphale tasted his skin, slightly bitter with salt and brimstone, but a flavor Aziraphale wanted to savor nonetheless. “Zira, I—you don’t have to.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. He did know. He knew quite well that Crowley was wrapped around his little finger, that whatever Aziraphale wanted, he’d get. And right now— “I want to.”

Crowley gasped again at the hint of teeth, hands clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulders as he squirmed under the attention. Aziraphale was not as confident as he was projecting, but he also wasn’t inexperienced. He liked to think he knew Crowley fairly well by now, and he used that knowledge to make Crowley come apart.

Aziraphale pulled back to admire the work of art he’d left, pressing a finger to it to watch it change color. Crowley _keened_, nails digging into Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“I would like nothing more than to taste every inch of you,” Aziraphale said. Crowley gasped and shuddered. It was a far cry from the Crowley who’d been in charge for the past month, but Aziraphale liked every incarnation of Crowley. He’d been confident and strong for so long. Aziraphale had a feeling he wanted to be taken care of, too.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whined, and Aziraphale ran his hands through Crowley’s hair, dropping them down to trace over his tattoo as well, earning another shudder and a whine for that. 

Aziraphale was a hedonist. Everyone knew that. And the sounds Crowley was making were the best music he’d ever heard. He’d happily enjoy hours of that, and perhaps one day he would. 

One day was not today. 

“Would you like me inside you?” Aziraphale asked. “Or would you like to be inside me?”

Crowley’s eyes, if possible, widened further, mouth falling open. Aziraphale shifted a bit and didn’t find what he expected. He shifted off Crowley altogether, glancing down to find the Effort Crowley had made.

“I see,” Aziraphale said, sliding his hands up Crowley’s shaking thighs. “How beautiful you are, my dear.”

Crowley whined. This was clearly not what he expected but also _quite_ clearly what he wanted. Aziraphale pushed two fingers into Crowley’s lovely labia, teasing the entrance but not penetrating him just yet. A thought occurred to him. 

“Pronouns, dearest?” he asked. Crowley audibly swallowed.

“He is fine,” he said hoarsely. “Only, can you—please?”

“Can I what?” Aziraphale asked, knowing full well what Crowley wanted. Just as he suspected, Crowley’s hips rolled into Aziraphale, trying to urge him into movement. “Oh, maybe I want to look at you a moment. Hold still.”

Crowley whined and Aziraphale gently stroked over Crowley’s clit, drinking in Crowley’s breathless gasp like the finest wine. Crowley squirmed, clearly trying to get more, and Aziraphale tutted. 

“Pushy,” he said, getting a little thrill when Crowley shuddered at the tone in his voice. “What do you want?”

Crowley swallowed audibly, shivering again as Aziraphale stroked over his clit, teasing. 

“To be good,” he said, and immediately turned bright red, mouth snapping shut like he regretted ever saying anything at all.

Aziraphale didn’t regret it in the slightest. He ducked down to kiss Crowley slowly, urging the tension out of his shoulders until he relaxed into the bed, humming contentedly into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale pulled away to press a kiss to Crowley’s tattoo, considering.

He didn’t expect Crowley to come right out and say it like that, but Aziraphale _had_ suspected. Crowley’s reactions to being called _good_ were not like his reactions to being called _nice_, and Aziraphale, being the literary inclined person he was, did enough research to figure it out for himself. 

Purely academically. Well, until recently.

“I know you want to be good,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyes were wide as he watched Aziraphale hesitantly. Aziraphale began kissing down his chest, slowly, torturously, keeping up a slow, gentle rub against Crowley’s clit. Crowley’s thighs were shaking. “I bet you’re going to be the best, just for me, aren’t you?”

Crowley swallowed, flush still high on his face, and nodded. His thighs fell open almost in invitation and Aziraphale happily took advantage of the access he’d been granted. 

“You really are a vision,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley _squeaked_, squirming as Aziraphale urged his thighs apart more, settling between them to watch himself rub Crowley’s clit. “Seems a little dry, no?”

“What?” Crowley asked dumbly, but Aziraphale didn’t give him a moment to register what was happening, ducking down and dragging his tongue across Crowley’s swelling clit, tasting him for the first time like he’d always dreamed. “Guh!”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, making Crowley’s hips buck, before flattening his tongue and licking, making Crowley squeak and squirm. Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hips, holding him still as he went back for seconds, then thirds. 

“You taste quite lovely, dear,” Aziraphale said. 

“Guh,” Crowley replied. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. 

“More?” he asked, and Crowley nodded emphatically. 

“Guh!” he insisted, and Aziraphale leaned back in, spreading Crowley carefully so, on the next lick, he got further in. Crowley’s back arched, one hand finding its way to Aziraphale’s hair and holding on tightly. Aziraphale exhaled a little miracle, making Crowley a little wetter than he already was, going back in with one finger this time, tonguing Crowley’s clit as he traced Crowley’s entrance with one finger, teasing, not pushing in yet. 

Crowley squirmed and Aziraphale could feel him clenching a bit. He whined as Aziraphale sucked his clit into his mouth, playing with it with his tongue gently as Crowley panted. 

Aziraphale slipped a finger into Crowley, sucking hard at his clit as he did, and was taken completely by surprise as Crowley cried out, hand going tight in Aziraphale’s hair, clenching around his finger, shuddering and moaning his way through an orgasm. 

Aziraphale stayed still, letting Crowley come down from it, inch by inch, and when he’d settled, flushed cheeks and heavy breathing the only indicators he’d come at all, Aziraphale slipped his finger out, leaning close to lap up the wetness from Crowley’s folds. 

Crowley twitched, moaning weakly as Aziraphale teased his clit on the way up. His legs splayed out at unnatural angles and he looked, heavy-lidded, up at Aziraphale. 

“Fuck me?” he asked, and Aziraphale paused. 

“You already came,” he protested. “It’s alright.”

“Can come again,” Crowley insisted. “You promised.”

“That I did,” Aziraphale murmured, looking Crowley over. He looked debauched, inner thighs slick and wet with his own fluids, and Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t want to be inside Crowley.

And angels don’t lie. 

“Are you going to be good?” Aziraphale asked, just for the little thrill he got when Crowley shuddered and nodded, lower lip trapped in his teeth. “I know you will. My good boy.”

“Yours,” Crowley croaked, and Aziraphale guided himself into that wet heat. His eyes slipped closed as he groaned at the feel of Crowley around him, inviting him in, hands greedily scrabbling at his shoulders. Aziraphale paused once he was in to the hilt, watching Crowley gasp for air and squirm underneath him. 

“Good boy,” Aziraphale repeated, slipping his hand between them to rub Crowley’s clit as he began to thrust, gently at first, then a little harder as his control slipped from him. Crowley felt _amazing_, felt like that first rain in Eden, felt like crepes in France and walks in the park and Aziraphale would be embarrassed later at how long he didn’t last, but it hardly took anything before he was spilling into Crowley with a low groan. 

Crowley answered with a needy one of his own, so Aziraphale coaxed the stubbornly limp limbs of his corporation to cooperate, pulling out and sitting back, catching his breath. Crowley whined impatiently, sneaking his hand down to touch himself, groaning in disappointment as Aziraphale caught him halfway.

“Now that’s not a good boy,” he scolded. “Did you think I wouldn't take care of you? That hurts my feelings.”

“‘M sorry,” Crowley gasped. “Please, I’ll be good.”

“Good,” Aziraphale answered, then rolled Crowley’s swollen clit between his fingers as he ducked down to lap up his own come leaking from Crowley. “Oh, I’m going to get you so clean, aren’t I?”

Crowley whined. 

“And you’re going to let me feast until I’m done,” Aziraphale said, grinning as Crowley’s breath caught. “You taste divine.”

“Flatterer,” Crowley somehow managed, head lolling back, and Aziraphale stopped teasing. He ducked down again and began licking with intent, playing with Crowley’s clit as he lapped insistently at Crowley’s entrance, licking up all his come and the steadily dripping fluids for good measure. Crowley was panting above him, grip white knuckled in Aziraphale’s hair, back arched off the bed. 

Aziraphale grinned and gave Crowely’s clit a slight pinch.

Crowley cried out, eyes flying open as he tipped into another orgasm, shaking and shuddering as Aziraphale kept licking, kept rubbing, until the grip in his hair turned into a weak shove, pushing him back. 

Aziraphale went when Crowley wordlessly asked, sitting back and miracling a warm, wet washcloth into his hands, using it to carefully wipe up Crowley, being mindful of his oversensitive clit. 

“‘Zziraphale,” Crowley groaned, long and low, blinking up at him, dazed. “That was--_Aziraphale._”

“Now who’s a flatterer,” Aziraphale murmured, and kissed Crowley softly, as sweetly as he could manage. “Thank you for taking care of me for my molt, dearest. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“‘S cause I love you,” Crowley mumbled sleepily. “‘N I’m tired now.”

Aziraphale laughed, shaking his head and grinning as Crowley insistently tugged at his arm. 

“Very well,” he said. “A nap sounds nice.”

“Mmmm,” Crowley agreed, half out already, and Aziraphale slipped down to lie beside him, letting him burrow into his side and hum in contentment. “Love you.”

“I love you too, my good, sweet, kind boy,” Aziraphale said. Pride and love welled in his eyes, feeling like tears but in the best way. He blinked it away nonetheless. “I love you too.”

\----

**Author's Note:**

> follow me to my domain at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com...


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